House of Tribes

by Garry Kilworth

  ‘So take it back or punish me,’ said Pedlar, getting tired of all this ownership.

  ‘We could make him a Stinkhorn,’ suggested Flegm. ‘That’d make it legal, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t want to be a Stinkhorn!’ said Pedlar. ‘I’d rather throw myself into the mouth of a fox than be a rotten Stinkhorn.’

  At that moment there was a thunderous roar from the room next to the cellar. Pedlar leapt about a metre in the air and landed ready for flight. The terrible noise continued for a few moments as he looked around for an escape route, then it stopped. Black dust came from under the door to the adjoining room in billowing clouds.

  Still jittery, Pedlar wondered whether to run or stand. His heart was pounding in his chest. His legs were twitching with indecision.

  Phart and Flegm were still standing, nonchalantly observing Pedlar’s nervous antics.

  ‘Cor,’ sniggered Flegm, ‘look at ’im. He’s about ready to stain the floor, he is.’

  Pedlar blinked in frustration, wondering what was going on. Suddenly, the thunder was back, even louder than before. He jumped again, this time not quite so high.

  ‘Whey-hey!’ yelled Phart, laughing. ‘He’ll be bashing the ceiling light next time.’

  The roaring stopped, the black clouds came again.

  ‘What is it?’ snarled Pedlar.

  Phart grinned. ‘Coal, comin’ down the chute next door. The nudniks are fillin’ up the fuel store, ready for next winter. Frighten you, did it, squire?’

  ‘And I thought he was tough, din’t you, Phart?’ Flegm said. ‘I thought he was quite a little hard case. But it seems he’s scared of a bit o’ coal…’

  Pedlar made a move towards the other two mice, who turned and ran. Pedlar chased them across the cellar floor and up the steps. The three of them were about halfway up when the door to the cellar opened and the light went on. Pedlar saw two enormous feet descending the cellar steps. He did not look up. Instead he kept running, sweeping the other two mice before him, up to the top step and through the door.

  The next moment the door had been closed behind them. Pedlar found himself in a long room with a shiny floor on which his claws kept skidding. Instead of chasing the two house mice now, he found himself following them, as they seemed to be seeking a dark corner. They found it around the hall corner, hunched in the shadows against the skirting, and were joined by Pedlar, who swallowed his fastidiousness and cuddled up against their flea-bitten pelts.

  All three mice fought to get their breath back, especially the two Stinkhorns, who were gasping with bulging eyes, and looked as if they were each ready to burst a lung. When they had all settled down to a regular breathing pattern once again, Flegm said to Pedlar, ‘Now you’ve done it! We’re out in the hallway, with the Gwenllian Hole too far off.’ He stared about him frantically. ‘Any minute we’re goin’ to see a cat come round that corner, or a bunch of Savages, or even the bleedin’ Headhunter with one of his diabolical traps. All thanks to you, you rotten bleeder!’

  CHEDDAR

  IN THE SKIRTING-BOARD BEHIND THE WARDROBE OF THE sixth bedroom was the Rajang Hole, named after its architect, Rajang-the-peaceful, a long-dead Deathshead spiritual warrior. The Rajang Hole, like several others in the House, was known only to the Deathshead. The Rajang Hole was so intricately designed, the use of light and shadow so cunning, that it could not be seen from either side of the wardrobe. Only when a mouse was directly in front of the hole, could it be discerned. Otherwise, it remained a mere shady area on the skirting-board, below a cleverly marked nick in the dado to pinpoint its actual position in relation to the wardrobe itself.

  From within the hole, which was a mere recess in the wainscot, emerged a mouse by the name of Skrang. She was a Deathshead who followed the teachings of Unn, a yellow-neck by species, and the dedicated protector of I-kucheng, the oldest member of the Deathshead. In any arbitration there is always a party more dissatisfied than pleased and I-kucheng had upset so many mice by his judgements that he was the target of numerous assassination attempts. Skrang had saved his life, often without him knowing, countless times.

  Naturally any mouse that attacked I-kucheng from the front was swiftly dealt with by the old mouse himself, using a martial art known only to Deathshead, called Ik-to. However, I-kucheng in his later nights was partially deaf, and often failed to hear an attacker coming from his rear. Skrang, a relatively young Deathshead at 370 nights, had appointed herself his unknown guardian. I-kucheng was at present safely resting behind the Rajang Hole, and Skrang felt like stretching her legs and enjoying a little freedom.

  When she reached the corner of the great, towering wardrobe, Skrang peered round to survey the room. The heavy curtains were drawn and the bedroom was in semi-darkness. The nudnik who used this room was an old female, who rose late. She was at this minute fast asleep in the bed. Curled at her feet lay a large, very old cat with a pugnacious face. One of its paws was as large as Skrang herself.

  The cat was a ginger torn, known to the mice as Spitz, because of his habit of spitting at everything that moved. Normally, Spitz liked to roam the garden at night, but occasionally he stayed in, just to be unpredictable. Not nearly as dangerous as Eyeball, the Burmese blue, Spitz was nonetheless still formidable even in his old age. It did not do to turn one’s back on the great beast.

  Skrang listened carefully for the sounds of regular breathing, both from the cat and from the nudnik. When she was certain they were both fast asleep, she skipped up on to the skirting board and ran around the room to the partially open door. Then she was out on the landing and clear of any immediate danger.

  Running along the polished wood on the side of the landing, Skrang had to pass an open door, behind which was bedroom number five, the haunt of the dreaded Head-hunter. Her heart beating a little faster, though Deathshead are supposed to be fearless, Skrang crept to the edge of the open door and stood there in a slice of shadow. When she had been there a few moments, she heard the voice of Little Prince. It froze her blood in her veins, as she listened to the horrible mocking tones.

  ‘I can smell you, sweet mouse, delicious mouse, dirty mean little mouse. I know you’re there.’

  It was a dulcet voice, a syrupy voice, and its owner sounded pleased with himself.

  ‘You think you can fool Little Prince? Not by a long shot you can’t, you dirty house mouse, with such delectable, savoury flesh. Little Prince can smell a nasty house mouse from two rooms away. Dirty house mouse, I can smell you now. I bet you have nice crunchy ears.’

  Yellow-neck, not house mouse, you little cannibal, thought Skrang. She knew that if there was a nudnik in the room with Little Prince, it would not understand his twitterings, and therefore Little Prince could only taunt. She gathered her courage in her breast and then made a quick dash across the doorway, glancing in to see the white mouse with the pink-rimmed eyes, pink lips and pink tail, who was watching intently from within a silver cage.

  ‘Ha!’ Little Prince cried, his soft, fat body clinging to the silver bars. ‘I knew it! I knew it! You can’t fool Little Prince. I grow fat on your flesh. I eat the luscious livers of micey mice after my master has boiled them alive. I’ll pop your eyeballs between my teeth. Mousey mouse, I love the taste of your honeydew tongue. Come back to me. Come back to Little Prince’

  Thankfully the voice faded away as Skrang got further and further along the landing and eventually reached the stairs.

  All the mice in the House had their own favourite way of ascending and descending the staircase. Some went down the banisters, some used the banister support strip below the rail itself, and some used the dado down the wall. Skrang was one of the latter. She climbed the flock wallpaper to the dado, then ran down this strip to the ground floor.

  Once downstairs she paused by the front door. She remembered she had not visited Stone in a great many hours. Stone, an old dormouse, lived near the ancient wooden privy at the bottom of the garden. Since the toilet was only used in an emergency, Stone was
left in peace most of the time. The garden to this House had been allowed to grow wild. Stone was passionately in favour of allowing things to grow wild. Stone hated the way some nudniks cut, pruned and reshaped Nature.

  Stone wanted all the mice in the House, in all houses, to return to their natural habitat: the fields, the woods, the ditches and Hedgerows. Stone believed that mice should not live in houses. Houses, as all mice knew, he said, had once been the homes of giant prehistoric snails, now extinct. Mice had gradually moved into the dead shells, along with rats, bats and other creatures – and lately of course, the nudniks had arrived too – but houses were not the natural homes of any of these creatures.

  ‘Mice are meant to be out in the open, amongst the grasses, in the banks of cow parsley, under the woodlands. They’re meant to drink fresh water from cuckoo pints, to eat crab apples and woodlice, and to sleep in beds of hay.’

  Stone was quite fervent when it came to such things.

  While Skrang was considering whether or not to go outside and call on Stone, the hall Clock chimed seven and jerked her out of her thoughts. Her decision had been made for her. Seven o’clock? Night was running into day.

  Instinct, a tiny feeling at the base of her tail, made Skrang suddenly turn and look up the stairs. Staring at her from about halfway down the staircase, moving ever so, ever so slowly, was Spitz. His eyes were narrowed and intent: they glinted like polished brass. His tread purposeful. His face was set as hard as brick.

  When he saw that he had been noticed, he sprang down the rest of the flight.

  Skrang was fast away, much too fast for the old cat. She shot left along the hallway and ran towards the living-room. Even as she ran, she cursed her luck. The escape route known as the Gwenllian Hole was at the other end of the hallway, straight on from the stairs. Spitz would have caught her though, had she gone straight. The momentum from his leap carried him directly towards the hole.

  Skrang made for the shadow in the corner below the stairs, and almost collided with three other mice. A moment later, Spitz turned and came in the same direction, looking around him wildly. Neither the cat’s sense of smell, nor his sight, were good and he spat and hissed in annoyance as he tried to ascertain the whereabouts of his prey.

  Until the appearance of Skrang, Phart had been patiently explaining to an hysterical Flegm (who had never before been out of the cellar) that all they had to do was run to the Gwenllian Hole at the other end of the hall. Now their only escape route was blocked by a monstrous ginger torn, who seemed intent on catching at least one mouse.

  ‘Oh my,’ whispered Flegm. ‘Oh my, oh my, oh my…’

  ‘Shut up,’ hissed Skrang.

  Spitz paced up and down, staring intently into corners and cavities, occasionally spitting like a frying pan of fat on a red-hot range. It seemed that he was not going to leave without having investigated every nook and cranny. He knew there was a mouse about somewhere and he was set on finding it.

  The letter-box lid suddenly opened and mail dropped on to the mat. The lid closed with a loud clack. Unseen by the mice, around the corner an old dog came out of the parlour, scooped up the letters with his mouth, and trotted back into the parlour.

  Spitz paid absolutely no attention to this diversion, intent on catching the mouse he had seen.

  Pedlar, who had witnessed Skrang’s narrow escape with some admiration, felt they were doomed. He had more than enough imagination to see himself slammed flat by a heavy pawful of claws, and his innards spilled on the hallway floor. It was this image, of his intestines draped over his own feet, which locked his mind shut against any hope, any possible thought that he might escape, even though the cat could obviously only catch two mice at the very most.

  At that moment Pedlar would rather have been back in the aromatic Hedgerow than anywhere else in the universe.

  Spitz continued to pace, muttering to himself, sweeping the hallway with his swishing ginger tail.

  Suddenly, at the partially opened living-room doorway, appeared the second and most deadly cat in the House. At that precise moment all four mice not only believed, but knew they were about to die. Eyeball, smaller, quicker and more athletic than Spitz, came padding into the hallway.

  Miraculously, she already had something in her mouth. When she was fully in the light, her blue fur dancing with electric shadows, they could see that the something was another mouse. It hung limply from her jaws, its eyes glazed, its limbs drooping, but it was clearly still alive. Some foolish house mouse had dared to venture into Eyeball’s domain, the living-room, and had paid the price for its recklessness.

  Spitz was taking a keen interest in this catch. There was a look of indignation on his face.

  Skrang knew what the ginger torn was thinking: he believed that Eyeball had caught the very mouse he had been chasing just a few moments previously. His mouse was in the mouth of his rival and he didn’t like it one bit. His fur went up and he began spitting and whining in a very low voice.

  Eyeball did not look at the other cat, nor did she even acknowledge its existence. She simply dropped the mouse on to the hall rug, where it instantly came to life and tried to run. She waited for a second, then flipped it through the air in a double somersault. It landed, rolled over, ran again in another direction. Eyeball carelessly watched it for a few moments, then leapt on it, tossed it backwards and forwards between her front paws several times like a ball, then suddenly bit it hard with a horrible crunch.

  She flopped sideways, and continued to play. She tossed the now dead creature against the wall, batted it from paw to paw a few times, before flipping the corpse high into the air and catching it deftly in her mouth. Finally, she dropped it between her front paws and lay there on her side with it, as if defying someone to take it from her.

  Pedlar, sick with terror, watched this harrowing display with a feeling of disgust. To think that the mouse he had seen somersaulting through the air had been alive just a few moments ago made him wonder what it was all about. One moment you were a happy soul, considering what to eat for your next meal, the next you were a meal – for some creature with a pawful of weapons and a mouthful of sharp fangs.

  He had no time to ponder this further, however, for something interesting was happening in the hallway. The ginger torn had obviously decided that the young female cat with whom he had to share the House, had robbed him of his rightful quarry. The old cat was now approaching Eyeball, spitting and hissing in a very hostile fashion.

  Eyeball, extremely fast, was up on her feet in an instant, the dead mouse between her jaws. From her throat issued a low warning sound not so very different from that of a dog’s growl. Spitz rushed forward, his hair on end, his face fearsome with its lips curled back revealing a show of spikes. Eyeball lashed out with a lightning-fast bunch of claws, catching the attacker behind the ear, pulling fur and drawing blood. There was a flurry of legs, a twisting of bodies, during which the older cat seemed to come off the worst, then the pair parted again. Spitz wisely retreated out of range of the faster cat’s claws. Red beads decorated the side of the torn cat’s left ear. There was more spitting and snarling, more low growling sounds, as the pair backed away from one another, assessing the situation.

  ‘Que tu es une voleuse!’ the ginger torn spat in anguish at the she-cat he believed to have stolen his mouse.

  Eyeball dropped the corpse between her paws. ‘Moi?’ she screamed back. ‘Pah! Menteur que tu es! Espèce d’imbécile!’

  To the four mice, not more than a few feet away, it was like witnessing single combat between the gods. Cats were invincible, completely devoid of fear, the absolute masters of the universe. There was nothing as cold-blooded, as inevitable, as determined as a cat. To see this clash of such creatures was like witnessing the impact of two mighty suns hurtling into each other from opposite sides of the galaxy.

  Looking at Phart, Pedlar could see the mouse’s eyes were round with fear. His lower jaw was hanging open, giving him a wooden appearance. His body looked stiff. />
  In contrast, Skrang seemed calm. She had chosen the deepest part of the shadow on the wall, but she appeared cool and thoughtful, concentrating on the situation out in the hall. There was a time for freezing and a time for running: it was knowing what to do when which saved lives. Skrang was not going to die because she was frozen with fear when she should be running. Equally, she would not be killed in flight, when she should be tucked up against the skirting-board.

  Flegm looked as if he might start running at any moment. His muscles were standing proud, his tendons taut, his whole body quivering with tension. Pedlar found himself ready to pounce on Flegm, in case he did try to break, and give them all away.

  ‘Tu n’es qu’un clochard,’ screamed Eyeball at the ginger torn.

  ‘Et toi, tu es une prostituée,’ snarled the old cat, who had been called worse than a tramp in his time.

  These final insults having been traded, the two cats went their different ways, leaving the corpse of the mouse lying on the hall rug. To Pedlar this was the worst show of contempt for his kind he had ever witnessed. The fight then, had not been about a dead mouse, but simply a power struggle. The supposed cause of the fracas had been left disdainfully behind, not really wanted by either of the two feline monsters.

  As soon as the cats had gone, the two Stinkhorns bolted, running for the Gwenllian Hole at the other end of the hallway.

  Pedlar and Skrang were left alone. Pedlar felt drained. Out in the Hedgerow he could have bolted into a hole, in amongst some thorns, up a hazel branch. He had never been so close to cats before and the stink of their coats made him want to be ill. The relief that he was still alive, still whole, was enormous, though his heart wouldn’t stop thumping against his ribs. He huddled against the wall, getting his composure back, swallowing hard to get rid of the taste of fear.

  ‘I haven’t seen you before,’ said Skrang.

  ‘I’m new to the House,’ admitted Pedlar, reluctantly leaving the comfort of the wall, ‘and so far I’m not much impressed by the mice I’ve met here. Not you of course – you seem to be reasonably sane. I ran into those two in the cellar, on my way into the place. Are the rest of the mice here like them, or more like you?’